Fare Play (6 page)

Murtaugh nodded. “Keep me posted.” He turned back to the report he'd been reading.

Marian started out but hesitated. “Captain?”

He didn't look up. “Something else?”

She hesitated again, but then blurted out: “Captain Murtaugh, have you ever been the best man in a wedding?”

That got his attention. Surprised, he said, “As a matter of fact, I have. My brother's wedding, in Pittsburgh—oh, a good twenty years ago. Why?”

Marian sighed. “My former partner is getting married.” This next part was awkward. “And he's asked me to be his best man.”

Captain Murtaugh stared … and then barked a laugh. “You? Best
man
?”

She sighed again. “Preposterous, isn't it? But Ivan says there's no other place for me in the ceremony. I've only just met the bride, so I can't be a member of
her
party. I might add that Ivan is getting a lot of fun out of this.”

Murtaugh laughed again. “I met him, didn't I? Sergeant up in the Three-two? I forget his last name.”

“Malecki. Ivan Malecki. What I want to know is … what am I supposed to do? I know I have to make sure Ivan and the ring both make it to the church—but what else? Ivan's no help. He's too busy cracking jokes about the best man at his wedding to give me any straight answers. But when the time comes, he's going to be panic-stricken and start thinking of all these little details that haven't been taken care of and … well, you see the problem. Do you mind telling me what you did at your brother's wedding?”

The captain was leaning back in his chair, grinning at her. “You do have interesting problems, Larch. Well, let's see. What did I do as best man? It's been a while. Hm … I had to make sure everyone in the wedding party had transportation from the church to where the reception was being held.”

“Oh my,” Marian said and took out her notebook and started writing.

“And the best man is traditionally in charge of the ushers. Make sure they know what they're supposed to do, like that.”

Marian groaned.

“You know you're supposed to toast the bride and groom at the reception?”

“Yes, I know about that.”

“Oh … and I remember I had to pay everybody who got paid,” the captain went on. “My brother gave me a bunch of envelopes with checks in them, and it was up to me to pay the caterers, the organist—is there going to be an organist?”

“I have no idea,” Marian said faintly.

“Musicians at the reception? They'll have to be paid. And the priest—don't forget the … minister? Rabbi?”

“Priest,” she said. “I'm not Catholic. Will that cause problems?”

“Naw. You just won't take part in the prenuptial confession, that's all.” Suddenly he sat up straight. “You know what you should do? Have you met the bride's mother?”

“Not yet.”

“Then go introduce yourself. Enlist her help. It's always the mother who runs these things anyway. She'll tell you exactly what's expected of you.”

Marian brightened. “That's a good idea! Thanks, Captain! That's just what I'll do. Oh lord, I'll be glad when this is over.”

“Hey, you'll have a great time. You'll see.”

“If I don't kill Ivan first.”

“You can always refuse.”

“I did. I told him I'd be perfectly happy just to be a guest at his wedding. But he wouldn't hear of it. He just kept on and on at me about it and … well, he wore me down. And now I'm stuck.”

Murtaugh was laughing again. He was still laughing when Marian got up and went back to her own office.

The detectives' squadroom was busy. About three-fourths of the desks were occupied, phones were ringing, and most of the extra chairs had been taken by victims, suspects, witnesses—all talking loudly, straining to make themselves heard over the racket. It was bound to happen; the morning had been too quiet.

Marian was thinking about lunch when she saw someone was waiting in her office—a woman in her late twenties, dark hair pulled straight back and fastened at the nape. Sharp clothes. She stood up when Marian walked in.

“Lieutenant Larch? My name is Paula Dancer—I'm from the Graphic Arts Unit. I was just working with André Flood on a portrait of a woman he's supposed to identify?”

“Ah, good. Did you finish?”

“Uh, yes, we finished it.”

“Then what's the problem? Why didn't you just send it up?”

“I thought I'd better bring it to you myself.” She opened a folder and took out the computer-generated portrait.

Marian looked at the portrait … and then looked back at Paula Dancer. “That's you!”

Dancer nodded slowly, a wry smile on her face. “Just as a test, I asked André to describe the man he works for. We built up a perfect likeness of the man sitting at the next desk.”

Marian made a noise of exasperation. “Do you have that one with you?”

“Uh—yes.” She fished another portrait out of her folder. “Do you know him?”

“I know the man André works for.” Marian looked at the portrait. “And he doesn't look
anything
like that! Christ.”

Dancer smiled in sympathy. “I'm afraid our André is easily distracted. I thought you ought to know.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. Where is our wonderful witness now?”

“He's out in the squadroom. Shall I send him in?”

“Please.”

Dancer grinned. “You know, I think that's the first time anyone has said ‘please' to me since I joined the force. I'll go get André.” She left.

André Flood, when he came in, was a surprise. Like most people, Marian had a mental picture of a computer hacker as someone overweight, unkempt, with bad skin. A can of Coke in one hand and a bag of munchies in the other. But that must have been the first generation of hackers; Holland's André was, in contrast, exceedingly kempt. Jacket and tie, good haircut, and a perfect baby-boy face that must drive the girls wild. He called Marian “ma'am” and avoided eye contact.

When he was seated across from her, Marian pushed the two sketches toward him that Paula Dancer had left. “The man first,” she said. “You maintain that's an accurate representation of your boss?”

The young man picked up the computer-generated sketch and examined it carefully. “There are some differences, but—essentially, yes.”

“Essentially, no,” Marian said. “The only similarities between that face and Holland's are that they're both male and they're both clean-shaven. And they both have dark hair. The graphics tech told me that's the face of the detective who was sitting at the next desk.”

“Really?” André found this mildly interesting.

“How can you not know what the man you work for looks like?”

He looked everywhere in the room except at Marian. “I do know what Mr. Holland looks like. I'm just not very good at describing people.”

“I'll say. This sketch of the woman is useless.”

“Excuse me, ma'am, but I'm pretty sure of that one.”

Marian sighed. “André, do you remember the policewoman who composed these pictures? You last saw her, oh, three minutes ago.”

“Uh, I remember her,” he answered vaguely.

She flicked the sketch with her finger. “There she is.”

His eyes widened, his attention caught at last. “I described the policewoman? Wow. Isn't it amazing, the tricks your mind plays on you?”

“Yeah, really amazing.” Marian turned both sketches facedown and tried to get him to look at her. “Think back, André. What were you doing when this woman calling herself Laura Cisney came into the office?”

“Well, I was tracing funds a building contractor was moving around to keep them from being frozen by the IRS. He was using South American banks mostly—”

“The IRS hired Holland's agency?”

“No, one of the contractor's creditors is our client. I don't think I should talk about it, ma'am. Confidentiality, you know.”

“Oh.” Marian suppressed a smile. “So you were trying to trace the movement of this contractor's money. Where were you? Physically.”

He looked faintly surprised at the question. “In my office.”
Like, where else
?

“How did you know when this woman came in?”

“She didn't come in, at first—the door's kept locked. She pressed a buzzer and my security light started to flash. It was my week to cover when the receptionist went to lunch. So I looked at the monitor and saw it was just a woman, alone.”

Just a woman
. “So you buzzed her in. Then what?”

Marian took him through the encounter step by step. André told her what he could, his eyes fixed throughout on some spot in the vicinity of her left ear. It became clear that André had paid no more attention to Laura Cisney's face than he was paying to Marian's now. She got the distinct impression that Holland's young computer genius was giving her maybe one percent of his attention. He was just going through the motions of being interviewed because Holland had ordered him to come in; but his mind was elsewhere.
Probably in South America
, Marian thought. When she'd asked all the questions she could think to ask, she still had nothing more than André's original description of the woman who wanted Oliver Knowles followed: she was medium.

Finally she said, “I'm disappointed, André. I was hoping you'd be able to help us.”

“I'm sorry.”

But he wasn't, Marian thought, watching him watching the wall behind her head. He wasn't sorry and he wasn't even interested. André wasn't being uncooperative; he just wasn't … here. Whatever problem Marian had, it was hers alone; he was totally detached from it. Marian speculated over whether he wasn't responding to her because: a) she was a police lieutenant; b) she was female; c) she was not of his generation; d) she didn't live her life through computers. She suspected the answer was d).

At last she let him go, wondering if he'd recognize her the next time he saw her.

9

Mrs. Austin Knowles opened the door to Marian's ring. Redhead, in her late thirties, her pretty face drawn into tight lines of distress. She was wearing a ruffled peach blouse with slim black trousers; something green sparkled at her earlobes. Marian introduced herself and was invited in after only a momentary hesitation.

“Austin is lying down,” Mrs. Knowles explained, offering Marian a seat on a white sofa as long as Marian's kitchen. She herself sat on a facing black sofa, equally long and about ten feet away. Marian could visualize a party in this room—
Oh, do come in … I think there's a place left on the black sofa
. Two rows of people talking at each other over a ten-foot space. Marian put the image out of her head and murmured a conventional expression of sympathy.

“This is very hard for Austin,” Mrs. Knowles said, “losing both parents so close together.”

“His mother died recently?”

“Just last month. It was cancer … a long, drawn-out illness.”

“I'm sorry.” Marian let a moment pass and then said, “Mrs. Knowles, do you have any idea why someone would want your father-in-law dead?”

She shook her head. “I have to think the … the killer shot the wrong man. Oliver was just an old man who liked to play with toys.”

“But he was a wealthy old man. Who inherits all that?”

Mrs. Knowles flared. “Are you accusing my husband?”

Marian tried to look startled. “No. I'm asking a question. I'm assuming your husband is the main beneficiary, but was anyone else named in the will?”

The woman looked uncertain. “You'd better ask Austin.”

“All right, I will. I'm sorry to disturb Mr. Knowles, but I do need to talk to him now.”

Mrs. Knowles frowned. “I'll go see if he's awake.” She left the room.

The Knowleses lived well. From what Marian could see of their Fifth Avenue apartment, the architecturing biz was paying off handsomely for Austin Knowles. This whole family was used to having money. And if the money stayed in the family, maybe the motive behind the killing was something else.

Austin Knowles came in looking haggard and grim, obviously hit hard by his father's death. The manner of the old man's dying was enough to rock anyone, but following so soon after his mother's death … Marian felt a stab of sympathy for the architect. Since Mrs. Knowles had not returned with her husband, Marian once again introduced herself. Knowles sat down at the opposite end of the long white sofa.

He was a slim, tense man in his forties who walked leaning forward … blue eyes, blond hair beginning to thin on top. In normal times he probably carried an air of authority. But in the midst of grieving for his father, Knowles seemed disoriented, uncertain. “Do you have a line on the killer yet?” he asked before Marian could start the interview.

“No,” Marian answered regretfully. “We're not going to get any leads from those people on the bus, Mr. Knowles. They didn't see anything. We're going to have to look for whoever hired him.”

Knowles rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Why? He was a harmless old man. Why would anyone want to kill him?”

“That's what I was hoping you could tell me. Let's get the unpleasant part out of the way first. Who inherits?”

“I do. Trust funds set up for his secretary and his housekeeper, but I get the bulk of it.”

“How big are the trust funds?”

“Big enough to give them both a comfortable income for the rest of their lives. But both Lucas—ah …”

“Lucas Novak and Mrs. Ellen Rudolph, yes.”

Knowles nodded. “You know about them, right. But they're family, Lieutenant. Lucas and Mrs. R and Dad had been living comfortably together for nearly twenty years. Well, Mrs. R has been there twenty years … I guess it's more like fifteen for Lucas. But they were both protective of Dad. They took care of him. Neither one of them would want him dead.”